PS 3525 
.0775 
P6 
1898 
Copy 1 



...POEMS... 



BY 



MILLICENT EDITH MORSE 






1898. ^ ^ 



1) 



3 



...POEMS... 



BY 



/ 



MILLICENT EDITH MORSE 



Lincoln, Neb. 

Woodruff Printing Co. 

iSqS 

C 









0<^' 



P^')rC 



Entered according to the Act of Congress in the year eighteen 

hundred and ninety-eight, 

By MILLICENT EDITH MORSE, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress. 

[All rights reserved.] 



OLD ENGLAND, 



Sometimes, when my lips have forgotten their mirth, 
And the pain in my heart makes me weary of earth, 
I love to look back, through the fast falling tears, 
And think of old England, my happiest years. 

'Twas there that I knew not the meaning of sorrow, 
'Twas there that today was as bright as tomorrow; 
And I with my sisters, sweet Lena the last. 
Thought days of the future would be but the past. 

Yes England, my home, I remember it well; 
Where bright in its beauty the ocean waves fell. 
Where the glittering sun sweetly smiled on the spray. 
And the boat and the fisherman watched for their prey. 

'Twas there, on the shore in the bright early morning, 
We watched the blue clouds that so gently was dawning, 
We picked up the crabs, that were trying to hide, 
And took them away from the bright ebbing tide. 

Sometimes, when we made little houses of sand. 
When we laid down our sand pail and spade on the land, 
We walked to the shore where the bright ocean caves, 
And laved our bare feet in its silvery waves. 

And there did we watch for the ship that was bearing 
The beautiful mast that it gladly has wearing. 
And stooped down to pick up the little white shells 
By the side of tall rocks where we saw little wells. 



'Tis years since I wandered a light hearted child 
Through the depth of old England, so loi^ely and mild, 
Since I gathered the pale purple flowers of the hedge, 
And walked with dear Lizzie, our nurse, by the ledge. 

Sad changes have come and brought to me sorrow. 
And my life it has changed as today, for tomorrow, 
My young father and mother both lie in the grave, 
And my heart beats but sadly, no more to be brave. 

Sometimes I have murmured, 'twas sad that we left, 
But something has told me, 'tis God who hath dealt, 
And I hope that the woe in my deep heaving breast, 
Once more in the home of my childhood will rest. 

I am wiser, for then so little of woe 
Did my soul in its freshness and purity know, 
But I ne'er shall forget it, wherever I roam, 
The lovely old England, my happiest home. 



SPARKS. 



Sparks is a jolly fellow. 

A character in my book 
With voice both bas'S and mellow, 

He appears in every nook. 

With no thought of contention, 
The heroine he would wed, 

And forces his attention, 
While in his necktie red. 

But 'tis an awful lesson, 
A terrible faint outlook. 

When making her confession 
He finds he's|been mistook. 

And you may think it funny 
So courageous he'd remain 

With countenance so sunny, 
His manner don't refrain. 

Though often she implores him. 
Bids him keep out of her way, 

But with greater smiles and vim 
He appears some other day. 

He has a horrid passion, 
Wearing his hat on his face, 

A very awkward fashion. 
To run a rival race. 



He sings bass in the choir, 
And after tne sermon's o'er 

He walks across the mire 
To seek her face once more. 

He finds the beauty reading, 
On the window gives a tap, 

She moves not at his pleading 
And he gives a louder rap. 

Then the old man surmises 

That some midnight sneak is 'round 
And toward the door he rises, 

But the freaks then cease to sound. 

There is an old gray steeple 
Where nestle the early larks, 

So I admonish the people 
To read of the comic Sparks. 



e 



THE RIVER 



I gaze on thy crystal surface 
With wonder as to thy glow, 

I would not from memory efface 
Thy resistless laughing flow: 

I know in my deepest sorrow 
I have sought thy gentle calm. 

Some mystic spell I would borrow 
That fell like a healing balm. 



And there in the quiet woodland 
Par from the world and its strife 

I would walk thy mossy moorland 
And forget the cares of life. 

river! thy lulling waters 
Cast o'er me a secret charm ; 

By thee my soul still loiters, 

I know thou would'st not me harm. 

So there in the golden sunlight 

Which alike falls on stream and grain, 

1 would linger 'til the twilight 
Bids me turn with a weary brain. 

river! my roaming treasure, 

Thy green banks I loathe to leave. 
The world affords little pleasure, 
To duty I too must cleave. 

1 turn away from thee, river! 

To play my part on life's stage, 
I must leave thy silent quiver 

With thoughts of the coming age. 

Sometime in the hidden future 
Again I will seek thy gleam, 

Thy sheen so dowered by nature 
Is a broad and silver stream. 

Farewell, then ! O peaceful current. 

If our parting is to be, 
Thy purity, though in torrent, 

Still hath a charm for me. 



TO BEATRICE, 



When in your album you happen to spy, 

Pray do not forget the nice lemon pie, 

And also the evening we went for a walk, 

When you thought it best not to laugh nor to talk. 

Remember the night we retired to rest. 

And at morn found our dreams proved not for the best; 

Remember the night the linden ite came. 

When you spoke so jolly and I did the same. 

Remember the time you happened to roam, 
And we suddenly missed you away from our home, 
And to think that I got so awfully beat 
When I found you sitting on the front seat, 

Remember the hats we were not going to wear; 
For pride is always so hard to bear, 
And ever remember the little road cart, 
How so often, so often, you took it to heart. 

Yes, dear Bee, if you live to be last 
You cannot forget these times of the past. 
And if your road be ever so hilly, 
You always will find a friend in Milly. 



THE ORPHAN GIRL 

Bereft of her parents so young and so fair, 
A young girl of ten with dark waving hair 
Is walking the streets of a city so vast, 
Crushing down her emotion and tragic past. 

The snow on the city is falling so white, 

The raging storm does not lessen a mite; 

The howling wind blows large flakes in her face, 

Walking on swiftly she speeds with a grace. 

How heavy her bundles are seeming to be, 
Her small arms are tired as one may see; 
I meet her so often as onward she goes, 
Bravely facing the cold blast in ragged shoes. 

Bereft of a shelter, how cruel the truth! 
Ah! more so because of her beauty and youth; 
The evening shadows of a dark lonely night 
Falling 'round her so quiet seem ought but right. 

No smile from a mother now welcomes her home. 
No voice of a father bids her cease to roam, 
No loving sisters in the city so late 
Weeping with her confusion share her sad fate. 

I know as the moments are passing away 

This young girl of fate knew some better day. 

In speaking of this 'tis a pity to learn 

Something's gone from her life for which she doth yearn. 

No pence in her pocket, her dress black as jet 
Is clinging and damp all dripping and wet; 
She's timid and sweet with a smile on her face, 
Working with an endeavor from place to place. 

O child of my knowledge! both slender and fair, 
Homeless and tired without someone's care; 
A wanderer facing the storm in its twirl 
Hath all my devotion, the young orphan girl. 



CORNA, 



C is for Coma who lives on a hill 
Near the quaint little village of Vale, 

Where tongues of the gossipers never are still; 
Forever repeating some slanderous tale. 

She goes very little, not even to school, 
She is wise, full of knowledge I'm told; 

You always will find her, ah! pleasant and cool, 
Though ever revealing her manner so bold. 

I deem you may think her exceedingly fair. 
And wonder as to her beauty of face, 

Alas! No, she possesses raven black hair. 

You may say reflecting, the pride of her race. 

I know you will like her, she's only eighteen, 

In her queer brittle bonnet of blue. 
She speaks very fluently, often I've seen 

Her merry eyes sparkle at some lover true. 

And now I have written great share of my rhyme, 
In my haste little poetry I've found; 

My thoughts, though not brilliantly, speed with the 
time. 
And Corna's gesturing holds me spellbound. 

For her bonnet of blue falls of! from her head, 

And the soft gentle zephyrs of Vale 
Wafts it on silently as sleeps the dead 

To a creek whose loud melody turns Coma pale. 



Then for a moment she kneels by the stream, 
Near the banks of this riverlet fleet 

And sighs with a weariness, gives a faint scream, 
For at the same instance a face she doth greet, 

'Tis her own startling visage from out of the deep, 
With its queer uncouth image so dark. 

Her bonnet, the head-gear at which she doth peep. 
Glides rapidly past her as swift as a spark. 

She sits in despair on the green, mossy bank. 
Her black curls astir fall all 'round her neck, 

Her face so appalling it seems almost lank, 
When quick to this riverlet comes Mr. Speck: 

And now Miss Corn a not wondrously fair. 
In sweet tones quickly hastens to tell 

Her fate with the bonnet and lo the young pair, 
Together walk under his large white umbrell. 

Then in the sunshine they laugh and they talk, 
And they walk o'er to the ancient chateau; 

How sweet believes Corna, of course its no balk, 
To completely captivate another girl's beau. 

They climb the steep hill and onward they roam, 
Her black curls afloat free in the breeze, 

A song on her lips to the tune of "Sweet Home," 
Though never so musical, Speck gives a sneeze. 

They reach the dwelling so close to the rill. 
At its sight Corna's gestures are fierce; 

She knows that her mother, so quiet and still. 
By this time has missed her, she tells "Speck 
make scarce." 

Now, if my readers more would like to know 

Of the queer fickle Corna of Vale, 
My book with its characters read without woe, 

And save idle gossips from telling the tale. 



WHEN? 



When will the woe of sad life cease, 
And bring the weary ones to peace? 
When will the innocent and just 
Cease to suffer, for they must? 

When will the drunkard's weeping wife 
Cease toiling by her daily strife? 
Her little children, scarcely clad, 
By her, whose everything but glad. 

When will the busy hands of time 
Banish the bloody work of crime, 
And prayers that sent to heaven twain 
Be answered as if not in vain? 

When will the orphan's moaning prayers 
Cease calling back the dead of years 
To save them from the cruel fate 
Of the good people now of late? 

When will the sick, with panting breath, 
Cease calling for their restful death; 
The weary, burning fevered head 
Can rest with great and honored dead? 

All this will cease, it cannot last. 

The future must not be the past. 

And happier then will be our band 

When gentle humanity reigns through the land. 



MY BOOK, 



Come all ye nations far and wide, 
Come from beyond the ocean's tide, 
Come with a zeal and take a look 
In the fair pages of my book. 

In chapter first I'll introduce 
Little Selina, in white ruche, 
Merry lone, so blunt of speech, 
And the fair Edith on the beach. 

Lizzie, the old nurse, tall and still, 
Tells the children to play at will; 
And then La Vern, the heroine. 
Gazes upon the dark sea's brine. 

'Tis all I'll tell you of this scene, 
Most beautiful in the extreme, 
For fear a sketch a childhood's day 
Would not interest you on the way. 

Time passes onward and we find 
The Bransley family combined 
Have gone abroad from native land, 
Stopping upon America's strand. 

And now some tragic scenes commence 
Which prove to be something intense, 
Selina Bransley breathes her last. 
For the great angel death sweeps past. 



Another year, and then La Vern 
Compares life -with the drooping fern; 
She sees a real now magic head, 
And her old guardian too lies dead. 

How close these sad events appear 
At which one sheds a falling tear; 
There's still another in one breath, 
'Tis Mr. Bransley's frantic death. 

My heroine all fresh with youth 
Comes forth to hear the fearful truth; 
She wears the sable robes of grief, 
Picture this scene so sad and brief. 

Lost to native trees and bower, 
Life seems not all sun and flower; 
But then if you should read my book, 
At the real comic scenes toflook. 

Open it wide and you will find 

Abungi with so great a mind, 

He is of such enormous size, 

And his large hat would take the prize. 

He is so jolly and so fat, 

A Chinese doctor, not a rat; 

He wears his glasses on a string, 

Comes from his land his herbs to bring. 

The foolish fellow does no harm, 
Brings a green melon from the farm 
In his bare feet with song and dance, 
He gives a sermon, then a prance. 

There's another physician fine 
Who does not tarry at the wine. 
A wedded man is Dr. Glen, 
Skilled both in fever and in wen. 



He has diplomas two and three, 
He's very handsome, though nofcfree, 
He finds my heroine once more, 
And then leaves for a fairer shore. 

La Vern now counts the stars above, 
And lives in her first dream of love; 
But turn the pages of my book, 
I'll introduce you to a cook. 

Grandfather Dere in navy blue, 

In an old politician true; 

He comes not o'er from ancient Rome, 

Though a domestic in his home. 

There is the village Valdemar, 
Somewhat uncouth and very far. 
Here lives the black and greedy rook 
Where a girl seeks the laughing brook. 

There's the dark liquid black and green 
Which makes another tragic scene; 
There's a large city, picturesque. 
Though the wanderer's not grotesque. 

There's Loyal Shaf ton, dark and tall, 
A guard^n* Linden's prison wall; 
There's Gerald Harts, Oh! what a name 
For a real artist of great fame. 

Here's Coma's wedding all complete, 
The bridal cake is large and sweet; 
The spectators seem hushed in breath, 
'Tis close to Dr. Britton's death. 

Come, gaze once more into my book 
And read about a village nook; 
There is a pretty Swedish home 
Where trailing vines and ivy roam. 




There lives a black-eyed trickster near 
Whom the villagers shun with f ear; 
There is a large ,and crystal jug, 
And one that breathes its deadening drug. 

The parting after eight long years 
Is very brief with doubt and fears; 
The hasty marriage and the flight 
Appears in ni^ times summer light. 

Read of the young deserted wife 
Battling the world of toil and strife; 
Read of the girl who fails to bring 
My heroine the stolen ring. 

The Bluton visit now is o'er, 
The attorneys are sought no more, 
La Vern alone appears in court 
And in a short time gains her forte. 

Now, Mr. Manning counts the stars 
Sitting behind the prison bars; 
But turn the pages of my book, 
And on one other scene too look. 

There is a mansion grand and tall, 
Spacious of room and broad of hall; 
The handsome Fredrick Rade is there; 
My little group is free from care. 

This is a peaceful, happy home. 
Two pretty children romp and roam. 
They play among the flowers and fern, 
Then why not read my book. La Vern? 

My book, sensational and large, 
Will go to press not free of charge. 
And many characters will appear, 
Which you will not find mentioned here. 



\ 



> — ^ ,,i:,2'^«RY OF CONGRESS 




018 348 043 1 



# 



